The Days After
by DrHoneyChuckles
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes was a coward. Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. Sherlock Holmes was dead. He wasn't a consulting detective anymore. He was a fugitive. Today marked the beginning of a new life for the detective. A life of living on the streets and hunting down men... And he hated it already." Will include all characters. Mainly Sherlock's POV.
1. Beginning

Hello, everyone! It's been a while since I've posted something. (If you're a fan of my Bones stories, I sincerely apologize. My laptop crashed that contained all my fanfictions and it took forever to find a way to recover them.) This story will be exactly 30 chapters long, unless I have the ambition or demand to keep going. It's based off of the 30 Day Prompt Challenge. Each chapter is going to be based on a prompt.

The prompts are as follows (hint, hint. I'm going in order. So if you'd like to suggest something for an upcoming chapter, let me know.): beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.

Thank you in advance for reading! :) And I'm sure everyone's aware that I do not own Sherlock.

* * *

It all began with a simple word.

A word that may not have meant much to someone else, but a word he'd heard since he was a child. A babe, in fact. The word reached him slowly. It confused him at first. Words never seemed to be much of a struggle for him before. Why now? He tried to reply to the voice, but found that his lips would not move, his vocal chords would not obey. What was wrong with him?

He tried to move. Nothing. Was he even breathing?

Panic surged through the man. Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong.

"Sherlock?"

There. There was that word again. It drifted into his foggy mind and he clung on to it. Sherlock. That was his name. He was Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. He felt the pull of unconsciousness at the back of his brain. No. He needed to wake up. He needed to know what was wrong. Sherlock was too stubborn to let sleep have him so soon after just being released from its clutches.

He tried opening his eyes and felt them flutter. A small glimmer of light poked through in that instant and set his head pounding. He winced and turned his head away. Good. He was moving, at least.

"Sherlock!"

The voice rang out through his head with each thud. He felt a groan pass through his lips.

"Sherlock, please. I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?"

No. Sherlock didn't want to. Who was this person that they could demand such things of him? He shook his head ever so slightly.

"Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a deep breath in to try and fire back a retort and ended up choking. He felt hands lift him up into an upright position as he continued to cough. His chest burned and he felt his eyes begin to water. His whole body shook with the coughs. Pain was beginning to blossom up in places he didn't know possible or was aware he had.

"Breathe, mate." Lestrade. Lestrade was telling him to breathe. But it hadn't been Lestrade before. Was he hallucinating? He then felt something cool run through his nose and down into his throat. He sucked it in with one big gulp as he felt gentle fingers move something behind his ears. His coughing eventually stopped and he was left with a raw throat and a pounding head and body.

"Can you open your eyes, Sherlock?" There was that gentle voice again. Definitely not Lestrade. A gentle voice that matched the gentle fingers he could feel on his face. What were those fingers doing there he wondered? The detective's thoughts were still quite cloudy.

"You still with us, Sherlock?" The DI asked.

Sherlock swallowed hard before trying to speak. His throat was raw and his words came out distorted. " 'm here."

A sigh of relief. "Good. Now please, Sherlock, I know it might hurt, but I _really_ need you to open your eyes."

The gentle voice. It was Molly. Sherlock opened his eyes a crack. He saw a flash of mousy brown hair, before his eyes drooped shut again.

"That's it, Sherlock." Molly coaxed. He realized she was holding his head upright. "Just a bit more."

His head was jostled a bit as he assumed Lestrade took the job of keeping his head upright. He felt the cool touch of Molly's fingers by his eyes. He slid his eyes open halfway and looked up at Molly. "There you go." She said with a warm smile. Her fingers kept the lid of Sherlock's left eye open as she brought a flash light up to check his pupil reaction. Molly did the same with his right eye. "You definitely have a concussion." She murmured.

"I could've told you that."

Molly shot a glare at Lestrade. "Why don't you go get some ice?" The mortician stated it as more of a demand than a question, however. She then turned back to look at Sherlock with a softer glance. Sherlock felt himself being laid back against what he assumed was a couch.

"How's your memory, Sherlock?" Molly asked. She kept eye contact with Sherlock at all times, making sure he was alert.

"My m'm'ry is fine." Sherlock answered, although it was an all-out lie. He couldn't remember for the life of him what had happened. Actually, his thoughts just hadn't brought him to the point where he wondered what _had _happened to him yet.

"What's my name?" She asked.

Her name? Why was that important? "Molly H'per." He answered.

Lestrade walked back over and gently placed a bag of ice onto Sherlock's forehead. Because of Sherlock's head being tilted back slightly, the ice stayed perched on the detective's forehead. A sigh escaped Sherlock's lips as the coolness of the ice relieved a great deal of the pain. "And what about my name?"

"Lestrade." Sherlock noted his speech was getting better, his head becoming less bleary.

"First name?" Lestrade asked.

"Greg." Sherlock croaked back.

"Good, good." Molly smiled. "Last question, when is _your _birthday?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit at Molly. The last thing he needed was for _her _to know his birthday. "January 6th, 1976."

Molly looked up to Lestrade for confirmation and the DI gave a nod of his head.

"Sherlock," Lestrade started hesitantly. "Do you…Do you remember what happened to you?"

Sherlock took a deep breath in, relishing the cool sensation it gave him. He realized that Molly had supplied him with extra oxygen. His eyes traced the tube he found lying on his chest, down to the tank on the floor.

"Sherlock?" Molly prodded gently. "You remember, don't you? What happened at Barts?"

Barts. St. Bart's. Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. The place that he'd spent weeks at recovering from overdoses. The place where he'd first met John Watson. The only place that allowed him to use their facilities anymore without fear of him blowing the place up. The place he'd met Molly Hooper. And, he soon realized, the last place he'd seen John Watson.

The last place he would ever see John Watson for a long time.

All the memories came rushing back to him in one painful rush. His head seared in pain and he reached up to press the ice tighter to his head. He screwed his eyes shut as the events of the past twenty four hours played themselves out in front of him all in one jumbled mess.

He felt his stomach begin to churn and he took a deep, shaky breath. He assumed his complexion must have changed colors because he heard Molly say, "Go get a bin. Quick."

No sooner was the bin pressed between his knees than Sherlock felt the bile in his throat. He pitched forward, the ice falling to the floor, and vomited.

Sherlock Holmes was a coward. Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. Sherlock Holmes was dead. He wasn't a consulting detective anymore. He was a fugitive. Today marked the beginning of a new life for the detective. A life of living on the streets and hunting down men.

And he hated it already.


	2. Accusation

Hello, all! :) Thanks for reading the last chapter. Here's the next prompt! Accusation! Enjoy! (Psst. Reviews are appreciated.)

* * *

Molly was sitting perched on the edge of her armchair. Her gaze was on the sleeping man lying on her sofa. He was still attached to the supply of oxygen, the fingers of his left hand were loosely curled around the tube that laid on his chest. His chest was rising and falling in a slow rhythm now. It was a huge relief to Molly. Sherlock's breathing before had been quite ragged. Before Sherlock had gained consciousness she'd had to lay her head on his chest to make sure she could still hear his heart beat and feel the slow rise of his chest. If it would have been any other situation, her face would have turned a deep red and she would have rather enjoyed it. But not this time.

Molly jumped when a hand was placed on her shoulder. "Sorry." Greg quickly apologized. He held out a fresh mug of tea for Molly. She took it with a small thank you. "How's he doing?" The DI asked.

"As fine as he can be." Molly said after taking a sip of tea. Her eyes never left Sherlock. The two sat in silence for several minutes. The only sound was Sherlock's breathing. "You weren't supposed to know, you know." Molly said.

"I figured. Considering you nearly killed me when I knocked on the door."

Molly's face turned a bright red. "That's a wild accusation." She hurriedly took a sip of her tea.

"Wild?" Greg asked with a lifted eyebrow. "I was checking to see if you were alright. I try to come in and you tell me, and I quote, 'I swear on all things Doctor Who, that if you take one more step closer I will knock you over the head with a chair.' End quote."

Molly just sipped at her tea. "Sherlock didn't want anyone to know he was alive. Only Mycroft and I were to know. And I haven't even told Mycroft yet."

"I'm sure I won't mess anything up. I sure won't tell anyone." Greg answered. He took a seat on the armchair beside Molly's. He sighed lightly, seeing Molly's gaze fixed on the detective. "You should get some rest, Molly. I'll keep an eye on him."

"I'm fine." She insisted. Molly was far from fine. She was frazzled beyond belief and she was exhausted. She'd been up all night with Sherlock the first night. She'd sat with her head on his chest to make sure he kept breathing. In the morning she'd managed to get some fluid into him. She doubted he remembered. Lestrade had shown up later that day and then a while after that, Sherlock had woken up.

Greg waited a moment before speaking. "I'm serious, Molly. Worrying isn't going to get you anywhere."

"Sherlock has a serious head injury, Greg. He should be in the hospital with IV fluids, and a heart monitor, and any gadget they can hook him up to." Molly answered, tearing her gaze away to look at him. "He jumped from the top of Barts and hit the pavement. It's a miracle he's still alive."

Greg nodded. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Sherlock needs you, Molly. And you won't be of much help to him if you're not in your right mind."

Molly looked away from the DI and took a sip of her tea. She was about to agree with him when she saw Sherlock begin to stir. His fingers that were wrapped around the oxygen tube tightened and his eyes fluttered. Molly quickly sat her tea down on the coffee table and made her way over. Greg hovered just behind Molly.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked gently. She reached out and took Sherlock's free hand; giving him a reassuring squeeze.

"Molly." Sherlock answered. He opened his eyes and Molly was relieved that he looked much more alert this time than the last time he'd been awake.

"How are you feeling?" Molly asked, giving him a smile. Molly wanted reassure Sherlock in any way she could. Holding his hand and offering warm smiles was the only thing she could think of. She just didn't want Sherlock to see how much this was weighing on her.

"Like I was run over by a freight train." The detective grumbled. He reached up and slipped the oxygen tube from his nose.

Molly took it from him. "You sure you don't need this?"

Sherlock nodded. "Positive."

"Good to see you're coherent." Greg commented, a small smile on his face.

Sherlock turned a harsh glare to the DI. "You're supposed to be mourning."

"And you're supposed to be dead."

"Which is why you're supposed to be mourning."

Greg placed his hands on his hips as Molly checked Sherlock's vitals. "Molly near killed me. Had to fight her off with a spoon."

"Did not." Molly muttered under her breath. A corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly.

"You're putting yourself at risk, Lestrade." Sherlock said his voice stern. He moved his arms to try and push himself up, but Molly placed a hand on his chest.

"Don't even try."

Sherlock frowned, but turned to look up at Lestrade once more. "You're on Moriarty's list. If any of his men find out I'm alive, you're dead. Knowing I'm alive just increases your chance of becoming a body on a slab."

"That's a chance I'm willing to take." Greg answered. A corner of his mouth turned up. "I think the wife will be relieved to know I have a high risk of getting killed."

"This isn't a joke, Lestrade." Sherlock said harshly. Molly winced at his tone.

Greg's smile faltered. "I know, Sherlock. Believe me, I do. I'm just trying to alleviate some of the tension."

"Well stop." Sherlock retorted, reaching a hand up to massage his temple. His temple that wasn't covered in bandages, that is.

Molly took this opportunity to jut into the conversation. "Sherlock, you need to be drinking lots of fluids." She pressed a glass of water into his free hand. "I want you to drink two of these within the next hour. Alright?"

"Alright." Sherlock grumbled then took a large gulp of the water. Molly knew his throat would be dry. The mortician stood and stretched her arms up over her head. "I'm going to go get some sleep. I'll be right down the hall." She motioned over her shoulder with her thumb and looked up at Greg. "Come get me if anything, and I mean anything happens." She gave Sherlock one last smile before turning to head to her bedroom. Before she closed the door she called, "Don't kill each other, please!"

Molly closed the door and practically ran to her bed, throwing herself on to it. She pulled one of her pillows to her chest and took a few shaky breaths. 'Keep it together, Molly. You have to be strong. Sherlock depends on you. Remember that. Molly. Even Greg said so. Just keep it together.' Molly took in a shuttering breath and closed her eyes. She buried her face into her pillow as she tried her hardest not to break down into a quivering heap.

Sherlock had managed to push himself up into a sitting position, despite Molly's warnings. He found that his ribs were protesting quite loudly and his back ached horribly, but he felt stiff. He wondered how long he'd been lying down. He had down about half of his glass of water when he looked up to meet Lestrade's gaze. "How is John?"

Lestrade cleared his throat and shifted nervously in the armchair he'd sat down in. "He's uh…" he fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt. "He's pretty… uh… shaken."

Sherlock frowned. He sensed what the DI's nervousness meant. "How bad is it?"

"It's pretty bad, Sherlock." Lestrade answered. His hands were still unsure of what to do with themselves. He shifted in his chair again. "He saw his best friend commit suicide. I'd be pretty shaken if I were him too."

Sherlock nodded and took another sip of water. He then chewed on his lower lip, his brow creasing with worry. He knew John was sentimental and he knew this would be hard for him. And it killed Sherlock on the inside to know the pain he was causing his best friend. One of his only friends.


	3. Restless

_**A/N:** Hello, everyone! :) Sorry I haven't updated recently. I kind of lost the motivation to write, seeing as this is my third chapter and I haven't had any reviews yet. :/ Reviews means faster updates, people! Don't make me beg. :'(_

_Anyways, hope you enjoy! This one's on the short side. _

* * *

Three days. Three days that had stretched themselves out into an eternity.

John was still sitting in his armchair. Still in almost the same exact position. Still in his clothes from three days ago. He hadn't slept a wink. Not one. The doctor was a pitiful sight. Mrs. Hudson had tried the best she could to keep John eating and drinking, but it was an uphill battle.

John was in shock. And the image of Sherlock lying on the pavement with that splash of scarlet across his face would haunt him. It would haunt him for the rest of his life.

John closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. No sooner were his eyes closed that he felt sleep pulling at him. The exhausted doctor gave in. 'Maybe this is all just a nightmare.' He told himself. 'Maybe you'll wake up and find out that Sherlock drugged you with some horrible hallucinogen in some sort of crazed experiment.'

But he didn't believe himself. A smile twitched at the corner of John's lips as sleep carried him away. What he wouldn't do to have Sherlock back. Even if he did drug him on occasion.

* * *

Sherlock was just as restless as the doctor. After sleeping for nearly two whole days, Sherlock didn't see why he needed any more sleep. Molly had assured him multiple times that his 'transport' -as he called it - needed rest in order to heal properly. But Sherlock had too many things on his mind to rest easy and, he wouldn't admit it, but he was in too much pain. Lestrade had left once Molly had had enough sleep. Sherlock had nearly dozed off a few times since then, but refused to do so once again.

So Sherlock laid on the couch with his hands steepled underneath of his chin. He would close them every now and again to try and fool Molly into believing that he saw resting, but they both knew that he wasn't fooling anyone. The dark circles that had already etched themselves into his face were evidence enough.

Sherlock was continuously reliving what had happened at Bart's. 'The Fall' as the media was calling it. He assumed falling stood for more than just his literal jump off a building. Perhaps the fall of his reputation as well. "Sherlock Holmes' autopsy has just been released for public viewing."

Sherlock perked up. He hadn't even realized Molly had turned the telly on. A news reporter was sitting at a desk with the caption 'Sherlock Holmes Commits Suicide.' Above the reporter's shoulder appeared different magazine covers with Sherlock's face plastered on them. 'Suicide of Fake Genius' proclaimed one. 'Fall of a Fake' and 'Revealed Truth about Famous Sleuth' stuck in Sherlock's brain. Molly switched the television off.

Sherlock swallowed and then chewed on his lower lip. He looked away from Molly and at the wall.

"They're all lies, Sherlock. They're idiots for believing it." Molly said firmly. "They'll know the truth eventually."

"Yes." Sherlock agreed grimly. "But not before my name is smudged out to the point where it's synonymous with coward. Liar. Fake. Jumper." He looked over at Molly, his eyes glittering a bit. He spoke in a falsetto as he continued, "Oh look! That man's about to jump out a window! He's such a Sherlock!" He frowned and tried crossing his arms over his chest, but his ribs screamed in agony. A slight wince crossed his face.

Molly placed her hands on her hips. "Sherlock." She practically scolded. "That will _not _happen. I won't allow it."

"I admire your spirit, Molly. But one person won't change a whole world's opinion." Sherlock retorted. He rolled over on to his side, his back to Molly. He bit down on his quivering lip, his eyes watering up with tears. His whole life's work, ruined. He was wrong. One person _could _change the whole world's opinion. But it was rarely for the better. Moriarty had changed Sherlock's name for the worst and he didn't see it changing any time soon.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson quietly tiptoed up to steps to (now _just_) John's flat. She opened the door and it creaked quietly. She looked around, but didn't see the man in the kitchen. She walked out into the living room and saw that John had finally fallen asleep. In his armchair, none the less, but at least the poor man was resting.

It didn't seem to be a peaceful rest however, as Mrs. Hudson spotted tears on the doctor's cheeks. She frowned and felt tears of her own rising to her eyes. She swallowed thickly before taking a few steps forward and wiping the tears from John's cheeks with her shaky thumb. The poor man was too exhausted to notice, or perhaps too exhausted to care.

"I'm so sorry, dearie." She whispered.


End file.
